91 Steps
by Estelle Rabon
Summary: Sonny Joon didn't want to form any attachments when he took an internship at Beech Hill Museum. But when he meets Poppy Dada, a famous young artist visiting Washington, all that changes. Sonny Joon/Poppy Dada.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hello, everyone. This is technically my first Nancy Drew story, although it won't have much to do with Nancy herself. I've always been a huge Sonny Joon fan, falling more and more in love with him as the games went on, and one day, I was struck with the idea of Sonny Joon and Poppy Dada being a couple. At first, it seemed like just an amusing possibility, nothing more, but I found myself getting _really excited_ about their story. So much so that I started writing fanfiction, something I haven't really done in years. It's lovely to try to get into the minds of these characters whom we know so little about. In any case, I hope you enjoy it. I'm writing much of it out-of-order, so the chapters might come in fits and starts, but I figured I'd go ahead and post the first chapter. Reviews are lovely!

**Disclaimer: **Obviously, the characters are owned by Her Interactive/Carolyn Keene/whoever came up with them. :)

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_**91 Steps**_

A Sonny Joon/Poppy Dada Fanfic

**Chapter One**

Joanna Riggs placed a hand to her temple, momentarily lapsing into something like self-pity. Joanna rarely allowed herself to dwell on the negative. There were simply too many things to do just to collapse in a moment of weakness. Still, today had been especially taxing. She was still working her way through a promising acquisition for the museum, a Mayan monolith that had just been excavated from Mexico, which took up most of her energy. There were a thousand little details that had to be sorted out--paperwork, payment, property rights--and she often came home from work exhausted.

But it would all be worth it, in the end. At least, she hoped. For now, she just ignored the dark circles under her eyes and threw herself into the forms, swirling her signature on hundreds of documents in the hopes that she would soon be the proud, temporary owner of the most important archaeological discovery in the past few decades.

Ordinarily, none of this would have worried Joanna. She could banish any doubts she had under those piles of paperwork, exhausting every possible resource to secure the monolith. But on top of that, there was other troubling news. For starters, she had just been informed today that the Mexican consulate would in all likelihood oppose the deal. This would throw a wrench into her plans. Too busy to look into it herself, she'd simply hired some lawyers to explore the legality of the consulate's claim that the monolith was unlawfully being removed from Mexico. Even if they found something…troublesome…she was sure Sinclair could orchestrate something behind the scenes, something that would satisfy everyone. Honestly, she didn't see the fuss. It was temporary, for goodness' sake! If anything, she was doing Mexico a service by displaying their rich cultural heritage in Washington, D.C. at one of the most prominent Mayan museums in the world. Which would be all the more prominent after the upcoming exhibition.

Along with everything else, though, Joanna also had to deal with another annoyance--hiring a temp. She kept the museum as short-staffed as possible, choosing to invest in the best and brightest to maximize the expertise on hand at Beech Hill, but occasionally, additions just had to be made. Recently, she'd realized that many of the exhibits inside the museum needed major overhauls, and none of the other staff members really had time to work on them. The job fell to the deputy curator, who had recently turned in his resignation, as he was moving to California. He had to be replaced. She'd cleared the issue with the Board of Directors and had secured the funds for another salary. All she had to do was find someone to fill the spot.

So, while there were a million other more important things to do, Joanna Riggs was stuck in her office, staring at the only person who had shown up for an interview. She gave him a quick once-over. He was a skinny, pale, young man--early twenties, thick-rimmed glasses, slightly spiky hair that looked like it had gone through a few odd dye jobs, loose-fitting jacket that he'd rolled up to his elbows. He slouched forward in his seat, his fingers tapping nervously against his knees, and looked at the clock every few seconds. Ordinarily, she would have written him off right away, since it appeared he wasn't taking the interview very seriously, but he was her only option. She'd only had time (and money) to write a brief ad in the daily classifieds, which had ended up being squeezed in at the very bottom of a column, and it had only appeared the day before. It couldn't be that bad, she supposed. Sure, he seemed a bit too casual, but he would only be doing menial tasks anyway.

"So," she began. "You're Mr. Sonny Joon?"

"Just Sonny," he said quickly.

"Alright, then, Sonny. Well, as you know, we're looking for someone to fill a temporary intern position as deputy curator, although if you work out, we're likely to keep you on for quite a while. Tell me, what interested you in working at Beech Hill?"

He crossed his arms over his chest and tipped his chair back, expertly balancing it on two legs.

"Didn't the Maya disappear without a trace a thousand years ago?" he asked bluntly.

Joanna blinked. "Um, why, yes, they did. You're interested in the Maya, then?"

Sonny grinned. The way he smiled made him instantly more appealing--less sullen and strange.

"A little," he said.

"Well, that's certainly a good thing to have at the start. I'm sure you'll learn much more as you go." She glanced down at his résumé, which, though cluttered with large, bright headings, was impressive. "You went to NYU?"

"Yes, ma'am. Bachelor of Arts, and I'm just a dissertation away from finishing a research doctorate."

Joanna's eyes widened slightly. "Really? And you're researching…?"

"I thought about writing it on the Maya," he said with a slight grin.

"Good! Excellent! I hope Beech Hill will give you a great starting point, then." She smiled. Maybe this would work out just fine. "So, what can you tell me about your work experience? Have you ever worked at a museum before?"

Sonny shifted in his seat, his eyes straying to the floor. "No."

"What other jobs have you had?"

Sonny scrunched up his face, thinking. "Oh, let's see, how many was it? I think it was twenty-three last time I counted. No, no, it's twenty-four. I always forget about the alligator farm. Didn't stay there very long," he said, grinning.

Joanna stared at him, her smile slipping slightly. "You're joking."

Sonny shook his head earnestly. "No. It's twenty-four, I'm sure of it."

Joanna shook her head in disbelief. "Oh. Well, in what field?"

He waved a hand. "Oh, anything you could think of, I guess. I've worked at carnivals, souvenir shops, quarries, libraries, jazz clubs, cruise ships. I worked for a guy at his house once--one of those millionaire types, thought he could afford a financial assistant to help him sort out his bills. Insisted on calling me 'secretary,' which I would have taken offense to if he wasn't such an adorable old nutcase. Kind of endearing."

"I see," Joanna said tightly. "And were all of these temporary or contract positions? I mean, you've been through so many…"

"Oh, no. They were permanent. I just got fired from all of them." He said it a bit too brightly, as though it were something to be proud of. Joanna resisted the urge to massage her temple, right at the spot where her migraines always started. A new one was already forming.

"May I ask why, Sonny?"

"Oh, you shouldn't worry. See, I think it had mostly to do with how much I committed to each job. You'd think they'd reward that type of thing, wouldn't you? Thinking outside the box, being a little creative from time to time? I can be very creative, Ms. Riggs." He flashed a smile, and Joanna felt a flicker of understanding. She suddenly _knew_ Sonny Joon--he was motivated, bright, and maybe a little reckless, but he had potential. That was clear. If she just established the rules right off, maybe he'd be just what she needed. Anyway, she didn't have time to be picky.

Joanna folded her hands across her desk. "Well, Sonny, I'm going to be perfectly honest--we don't have much _room_ for creativity here at Beech Hill. We run a fairly smooth ship, so I would prefer it if you didn't, um, go too crazy. But if you think you can handle that, we're certainly willing to give you a shot."

Later, Joanna would remember Sonny's far-too-innocent expression and see it as a warning, an obvious lie that she should have picked up on from the beginning. But now, already turning back to her piles of paperwork, she just felt relieved. Sonny reached out to shake her hand.

"Absolutely, ma'am."


	2. Chapter 2

**Note: **Agh, I know I'm horrible at updating. _Horrible. _I'm off this week, so I'll be writing a lot more on this, hopefully. In any case, here's the next chapter. Enjoy. All characters belong to Her Interactive.

_Deputy curator at Beech Hill Museum, Washington, D.C. _

Sonny Joon muttered the words under his breath, testing out the sound and feel of them. He added them to his already sizable list of occupations, a list which ranged across ten states and two continents. This would be his twenty-fifth job in as many months.

He smiled as he strolled out of the museum, hands in his pockets. He felt like interviews were old hat now. No one really cared about experience or skills. All they wanted was charm, a certain _spark_ that they could latch onto. It was easy to imbue himself with that charm—really, it just took a few well-placed smiles, some wit, and some _yessir_s and _yes'm_s peppered in. They already _wanted_ to believe that he was the answer to their prayers, so why not let them believe it as long as possible?

Actually _working_ was the difficult part. As little effort as he put into his interviews, he couldn't even manage to keep _that_ up for more than a day or two on the job. False enthusiasm got boring very quickly. He'd have to find some way to make this gig last longer, though, even if it meant actually buckling down and doing something. Much as he loved the idea of maintaining his job-a-month streak, it just wasn't the most profitable situation.

Of course, _he_ didn't really mind the money problem. But he felt obligated to Charlie.

As soon as he got to the sidewalk, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed his roommate's number. "Charlie!" he said as soon as he heard the receiver lift. "Meet me at Starbucks, like, now, okay?" Charlie mumbled an assent and hung up. Sonny smiled to himself and hurried to their favorite (well, only) meeting place, a little off-kilter table on the sidewalk outside of a corner Starbucks.

He only had to wait a few moments (after he'd gotten his coffee, of course), to see Charlie. Charlie Murphy was about a year older than Sonny; he had messy brown hair that curled over his forehead and sleepy eyes that girls usually went nuts over. Sonny had met him at NYU during his junior year—Sonny had been a student, Charlie had been a janitor. The story of exactly how they'd met was long, complicated, and involved lots of tears and vomiting, but in short, even though they were polar opposites, they'd just sort of clicked. Charlie, though he had absolutely zero self-confidence, was always working; when Sonny had met him, he'd just come off an intense renovation project in San Francisco. Charlie had a kind of quiet energy that made him well-suited for long, tedious jobs like that. Sometimes, Sonny would walk into their apartment and find Charlie working on some carpentry thing or other, and then he'd find out that Charlie had been working on one _edge_ of a table all day. Just watching him made Sonny anxious—sitting still was definitely not an option for him. He left the patience to Charlie.

Charlie swung himself into one of the metal chairs outside Starbucks, giving Sonny a sleepy nod.

"Hey," Sonny said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Just wanted you to know I got the job."

"Which one?"

"Mayan museum," he said. "I start tomorrow."

"Mm," Charlie said noncommittally. Charlie was noncommittal about most things. With him, the emotion only came out in the tone of his sighs. Sonny thought he detected a small hint of approval today. "Did you ask about the aliens?" Charlie added.

Sonny grimaced. "Nah. Not yet. I figured I'd build up to that." Truthfully, it had taken all his energy not to bring it up during the interview.

Charlie chuckled once. "You're wasting time."

"My boss is already in love with me, okay? No sense in pushing it."

"Isn't that kind of your thing? Pushing it?"

"Up yours," Sonny said without missing a beat. "Look, I just thought I'd let you know. Don't people usually get excited about this kind of thing?"

"Hoorah," Charlie deadpanned.

"I can help pay the bills now."

"You're the man."

Sonny rolled his eyes and began pouring packet after packet of sugar in his cup.

"You're so annoying in the morning," he muttered.

"Well, you've got all the other times covered, so I gotta pick up the slack."

"Jesus," Sonny whispered. "That attitude's not gonna get you anywhere. I was _going _to tell you what I'd rate the new boss, but it sounds like you aren't in the mood to appreciate it."

Charlie sat up straighter in his seat. Sonny smiled. He knew he had him. Charlie'd never been able to resist the rating game.

"Okay," Charlie finally said. "Sorry. What was she?"

"Definitely a Rachel," Sonny pronounced. He and Charlie had made a game of ranking their ex-girlfriends by attractiveness. Rachel had been Charlie's girl for about two months before she'd broken it off, presumably to start her acting career, although Sonny had seen her a couple of weeks later working a bar… and its occupants. He'd never had the heart to tell Charlie, who still treasured her autograph for when she made it big and came back to him.

Charlie groaned. "Man, there's no _way_. Rachel is the _only_ Rachel."

"Well, imagine Rachel in ten, fifteen years. And you've got Joanna."

"God. When can I come visit you?"

"You are not allowed to seduce my boss. It's unprofessional. Just saying. Besides, she's kind of a… stickler." Sonny slipped into a falsetto. "'We don't have ROOM for creativity here, Sonny, but if you think you can handle that…'" He groaned. "Condescending, much?"

"Oh, now I remember why I wasn't excited about you getting a job," Charlie said sarcastically. "You have zero respect for authority. You'll leave after two weeks with that attitude."

"Oh, please. I got this. Besides, this time will be different… I think."

"Oh?" Charlie didn't seem very impressed.

"Yeah. I mean, this gig is actually relevant to my interests. I gotta research the Maya somewhere. This place is ideal."

"And… how long have you been working on this paper?" Charlie pressed.

Sonny glared at him. "Bitch, don't mess with me."

Sonny had graduated from NYU a year ago, a full semester earlier than he'd initially planned. Now he was working on his research doctorate, a tour de force which would, undoubtedly, propel him to the most respected circles of the scientific and anthropological communities. Once it was finished, of course.

Charlie shrugged. "Okay. But I doubt they're gonna have any alien abduction exhibits in a _real_ Mayan museum."

Sonny glowered into his cup, which was now mostly empty. "For now," he muttered darkly.

"God, don't do that," Charlie said nervously. "Your voice is _so creepy_ sometimes."

Sonny smirked and leaned on his elbows on the table, making it shake wildly. "_Is it_?" he whispered, making his voice go low.

"Cut that _out_," Charlie hissed. "Look, man, I've had enough of ghosts and haunts. Just. Don't."

Sonny laughed and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, right. The ghost in San Francisco. _Right_."

"Look, I put up with your aliens. And this is different, 'cause it was _real_."

"I believe you," Sonny said, raising his eyebrows. He wasn't in the mood to go through this conversation again.

They sat in silence for a few seconds before Charlie abruptly put his hand on the table. "So… is this all you had to tell me?"

"Yup." Sonny nodded.

"Well, thank you," Charlie said, standing up. At first, Sonny thought he was being sarcastic, but Charlie looked sincere. "I mean, for trying. Anything will help."

Charlie's voice sounded a little tight, the way it always did when he had to talk about money. Sonny got the impression that Charlie had always had trouble keeping a roof over his head. But pitiful conversations like this always made Sonny uncomfortable, so he simply shrugged.

"Yeah, don't mention it," he said, downing the last of his coffee. "I'm really gonna try to keep this one. Really."

Charlie smiled wistfully. "I hope so," he said. "Just keep your skinny ass out of trouble."

Sonny grinned. "Sounds like a challenge."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Been a while! Have some Sonny!**

Henrik van der Hune, his arms folded tight across his chest, tapped his fingers against the well-worn elbows of his lab coat. He had tied his procedure mask around his ears so it hung just below his chin, as if he expected to need it at a moment's notice. Never mind that he was not even in his lab but in Joanna's dim office. He felt awkward without bright fluorescent bulbs overhead and Mayan dust on his fingertips.

He cleared his throat. The noise sounded uncommonly loud in the small office.

"Joanna," he began. "It's getting rather late. Perhaps I should…"

"It's only ten minutes past," Joanna said through gritted teeth.

Henrik paused for a moment, already flustered. "This exhibit of yours is going up in less than two months, and if it's going to be ready by then, I have to get to work on those translations. _Now._"

"Henrik, for God's sake, it won't kill you to stand here for two more minutes and meet him. I want to talk to both of you together."

Henrik frowned, his nostrils flaring. "I do not want to waste my time because the boy doesn't deign to _show up._" It was bad enough that they were forced to bring in new employees for the exhibition, stretching the already-thin funds to their limit. But when those employees couldn't even bother coming in on time? It was outrageous.

"You won't even have to train him, Henrik. He's the deputy _curator_, not deputy glyph expert. Just meet him so you can work in the same space without killing each other. Please."

"Well," Henrik said gruffly. "Let me know when he arrives."

He pulled his sleeves up to his elbows with two quick jerks, smoothed down his pockets, and then spun on his heel to walk out the door.

"_Henrik_!" Joanna seethed. Just as Henrik's hand touched the knob, though, the door flew open, and directly in front of him stood a mess of a young man. Everything about him suggested that he'd simply emerged from under a heap of wrinkled, mismatched clothing, hatching out of a shell of dirty laundry like some gangly duckling. The boy's hair stuck out at wild angles, and his glasses were perched rather precariously on the end of his nose. His nametag, which he'd positioned in the very center of his shirt, was such a sloppy swirl of letters that Henrik had to squint to read it.

"Sonny… Joon?" he said.

"By God, he remembers!" the boy exclaimed, giving Henrik's hand a firm shake.

Henrik's frown deepened. "I don't believe we've met…"

"No, we haven't, just teasing," Sonny said in a single breath. He swept his eyes around the room, finally lighting on Joanna. "Joanna! And how are you this morning?"

Joanna straightened up in her chair. "You're late, Mr. Joon."

Sonny's face blanched for a moment, but it quickly settled back into an easy smile. "It was the subway. I haven't been in town long, so I'm not used to the schedule yet."

"Well, let's watch for that in the future, shall we?" Joanna said. "Henrik here was about to have a heart attack."

Henrik bristled as Sonny turned toward him. "Ms. Riggs wanted me here for your first day, Mr. Joon, but time is tight, and we won't always have the luxury of a friendly chat before work." He looked imploringly at Joanna. "Speaking of…"

Joanna waved a hand. "_Please_, Henrik, go back to your glyphs before you go into withdrawals." Henrik beamed and spun out the door, letting it close with a not-so-gentle bang.

Sonny stared at the closed door, eyebrows raised. "Jumpy guy, isn't he?"

Joanna sighed, pressing her fingers together. "Generally. Promise me you two will have a friendly conversation before the day's out. Maybe that will calm him down." She dug her hand into her right temple. "I really can't say I blame him now, though. We're all going to be working our hands to the bone to get ready for this big exhibit."

Sonny swallowed. After taking a few seconds to compose himself, he put on his best forced smile and slid his glasses up his nose.

"Where do I start?"

Henrik was just finishing a particularly difficult line of glyphs from a Tikal plate when Sonny Joon opened the door to the lab.

Or perhaps _crashed through it_ would have been more accurate. Henrik had only known the boy for a few days, but he was already becoming accustomed to Sonny's unique _energies_, for lack of a better word. Just watching him was exhausting. He seldom walked in a straight line, but rather vaulted and spun from room to room. The skid of his sneakers on the tiled floor had become the only sound in the museum in the morning hours before it opened.

"Good morning, Mr. Joon," Henrik said, rubbing his eyes.

Sonny frowned, throwing his backpack down on his desk. "We gotta stop this _Mr. Joon_ nonsense, Henrik, buddy," he said, collapsing into his chair. "I'm thinking something a little more… _representative_." He threw his hands up in the air, bracketing his words with an imaginary marquee. "_Hurricane Sonny_. What do you think of that?"

Henrik struggled to keep his voice even. "It certainly makes a statement."

Sonny sighed. "Good." After that, he commenced his daily drawer-opening routine, a cacophony of _screak_ing metal that Henrik had learned to grit his way through. After opening and closing three separate drawers, Sonny finally pulled out a thick stack of paperwork and about four candy bars, which he spread out across his desk. Henrik waited until Sonny had unwrapped his first piece of candy (Henrik always lost count of how many he consumed daily) and taken a bite out of it before speaking.

"Sonny," he said. "Did you get around to printing out those articles I asked for?"

Sonny whirled around. "Aw, man. I know I printed 'em. Hang on." More drawers. Henrik pinched the bridge of his nose and counted slowly to ten.

"Aw, here they are," Sonny said. He propelled himself across the room with his wheeled chair, pushing off from the ground with his feet. He dropped a thick, slightly rumpled, chocolate-fingerprinted stack of paper on Henrik's desk.

"Thank you," Henrik said. "Keep this up and we may let you do something really important. Like stapling."

"Good one, man." Sonny took another bite of chocolate. "I think you're getting the hang of this whole humor thing. Progress!"

Henrik merely raised his eyebrows in response. He was trying to train the boy to be quiet while he was in the middle of glyph work. Unfortunately, he hadn't had much success so far.

Just as he put his pencil on the next line of glyphs, the door opened. Henrik sighed and put down his glasses.

"It's almost like you don't want anything translated, Joanna," he said petulantly.

Joanna leaned against the doorframe and waved her hand, dismissing the thought. "It's a wonder you have time around all that whining." Henrik rolled his eyes and jammed some ear plugs from his pocket into his ears.

"Well, Joon, I just wanted to check in and see how you were coming along with that tour script I gave you earlier…?"

Sonny grinned, tearing off another wrapper. "It's going great. 'The Maya were an ancient civilization inhabiting the central region of Mexico between the 10th century BC and 900 AD. We've assembled a collection of artifacts which provide a representative view of their most important traditions so that you may get a glimpse of a typical Mayan lifestyle at the height of their civilization. To your left, we shall begin with a brief rundown of Mayan deities…'"

"Alright, that's quite enough," Joanna said, masking a smile. "Normally we wouldn't have assistants run the tours, but we are… ah, a bit short-staffed at the moment, so it would be a big help if we could have you on hand, just for our busy days."

"No problem. But, ah, would it be all right if I slipped in some of my own research if it isn't in your script? Not that it's not a great script, I mean, just look at all these _words_." He gestured to the packet she'd given him, the first page covered with a tight block of text. "But if I run into interesting things, you know, I'll bet the customers would love to hear about them."

Joanna bit her lip. "As long as you run them by me first."

Sonny shrugged. "Sure."

"Okay." Joanna paused for a moment, ignoring her sudden uneasiness. She'd probably regret this later. "Remember to sort out those audio narrations soon."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm on it," Sonny said. He'd already started scribbling in a notebook with a white gel pen. Joanna backed out of the room, shaking her head. As long as it got done…

Henrik breathed a sigh of relief as soon as she left. It was always so difficult to concentrate in a noisy room.

"Hey, Henrik, can I ask you for your professional opinion on something?" Sonny said suddenly. "About the Maya?"

Henrik brightened before it occurred to him to be annoyed. Perhaps there was hope for the boy yet.

"Certainly. What did you want to know?"

"I was wondering what you thought about their disappearance. Any theories?"

Henrik sat back in his chair, musing. "There are a lot of possible explanations, I suppose. All the usual ones: famine, disease, war with other tribes or civilizations. I tend to agree that it was some ecological factor, like drought or soil degradation, that led to migrations or radical changes in Mayan lifestyle. People are discovering new evidence at digs all the time, though, so who really knows for sure?"

Sonny paused, nervously wrapping the phone cord around his finger. "So… you don't think it could have been aliens, then?"

Henrik blinked. "Come again?"

"You know. _Aliens_. Why else would the Maya have been so interested in astrology? They could have been studying extraterrestrial life forms, or trying to communicate with them. And you gotta admit that half of their gods look like Martians."

It took all of Henrik's self-control not to drop his head into his hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Poppy and Sonny in the same scene together! Finally! XD (World's worst updater, that's me.)**_  
_

_DAY 10, _Sonny wrote at the top of the page in fat capital letters. _Joanna obnoxious today. Complained about the Koko Kringle stash in my desk. I told her I needed them to work. Gotta keep those sugar levels high. Doctor's orders. She didn't buy it. Afraid my charm's starting to wear off. Damn. I was doing so well this time. Question: Is it ethical to surreptitiously plant "offensive" candy around the boss's office when she's not looking, perhaps as a means of slow psychological torture? Answer: Irrelevant. I'm doing it. Interesting experiment to keep me busy, anyway. _

Sonny sighed and started doodling in the margin of his notebook. Beech Hill was deadly boring today. With Joanna gone, he had nothing to do, no tasks to complete, no orders to shirk. After she'd bitched about the chocolate for a good ten minutes (_honestly_, he'd never met anyone so opposed to candy), she'd headed off for a meeting at the Mexican consulate. He had to assume that was the main reason she was in such a foul mood—probably nothing to do with him. The idea of losing her good graces bothered him a touch more than it should. He did _really_ want this job to last—at least for a few months. Now was when the real test began. Once the first flush of the honeymoon period wore off, he always found it much harder to stick around.

Logically, he ought to be on his best behavior now, what with the proverbial stick already wedged up the ass of the Lovely Ms. Riggs, but the candy thing was just too good to resist. He pulled open his candy drawer noisily (ignoring Henrik's loud sigh from across the room), pulled out five Koko Kringles, and bounced out the door.

He'd swiped Joanna's office key on his first day and made a copy of it during his lunch break. He'd had it back in its drawer before anyone noticed its absence. He made an effort to get keys made for every place he worked. You just never knew when that kind of thing would come in handy. It wasn't like he was _stealing_ from them, it was just—well, it all served a higher purpose, didn't it? Everything he did, he did for comedy. It was a shame most of his former bosses had never seen it that way.

He pulled the key out of his pocket and twisted it in the knob. After shutting the door behind him, he flicked on the light and glanced around Joanna's office. It was nice, as far as offices went. He liked the way she'd filled it with Mayan décor—jade statues, wooden masks, glass jewelry—even if it made him wonder why such things weren't in the museum proper, locked away safe behind glass doors. Well, that question could wait. Right now he was only interested in all the hiding spots Joanna's treasures made possible.

He tiptoed toward her bookshelf and slid one Koko Kringle bar between two ebony jaguars. He had a notion that he would keep adding chocolate bars to her office every day, just to see how long it would take her to notice them. He was looking around for another hiding spot when he heard a knock on the door.

For a moment, he froze. Was Joanna back already? He immediately dismissed the idea. Why would she knock on her own door? It had to be someone else, maybe Henrik or a deliveryman. If he just stood here quietly for a few minutes, they'd probably go away.

"Jo_anna_!" The voice on the other side of the door was high-pitched, with the slightest hint of an accent. "Joanna, I know you're in there, I can see the light under the door!"

_Damn, _Sonny thought, gritting his teeth. _Lesson learned. _Taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the knob and yanked the door open.

The man outside stepped back, wringing his hands together. He was a short, balding Asian man, with a greasy, thin mustache just over his lip. The man's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Where's Ms. Riggs?" the man asked, perplexed.

"Out," Sonny said curtly. Throwing his hand against his hip, he asked, "May I take a message?"

"Well, it's not a _message_, per se," the man said, suddenly flustered. He flashed a smile and smoothed his tie, which was covered in an alarming, swirling neon pattern. "Sorry. I'm Taylor Sinclair. I sometimes do appraisal and acquisition work for Beech Hill."

Sonny nodded, biting the inside of his cheek. It was difficult for him to form thoughts while in the presence of the man's radioactive tie. He couldn't tear his eyes away from it.

"I brought someone very special with me," Sinclair continued, pulling his lips into another tight smile. "I was rather hoping Ms. Riggs would get a chance to meet her…"

"Her?" Sonny echoed. The man was talking in circles. Sonny threw a pleading look over Sinclair's shoulder, half-hoping Joanna would burst in and save him from further painful conversation. No such luck. The only other person in the lobby was a young woman who kept folding and refolding the maps on the front desk.

"Are you talking about me, Taylor?" the woman suddenly said. She tucked a map under her arm and bounded over to the office door. "I'm right here, you know!"

Sinclair glanced at her and smiled. "Yes, I was just informing this young man that you were here. Might I introduce Miss Poppy Dada, one of the most exciting young artists I've seen in _years_."

"Shut _up_," the girl said, rolling her eyes. She pinched her lips between her teeth and glanced in Sonny's direction. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair—a wild tangle of orange curls, springing free from a tight ponytail. It seemed to defy all natural laws of physics, haloing around her head as if she'd just slid her feet across a carpet and zapped herself with a metal doorknob. He half expected to see little _zing_s of electricity jumping through it. With the amount of copper bangles around her arms, ears, and neck, she'd certainly be a great conductor. She was dressed in typical Bohemian tripe, all loose skirts and shawls that covered her actual shape. Sonny thought that was a shame. Her face looked cute enough, but her big clothes and bulky jewelry and busy spray of hair could almost make you forget it.

The girl was still staring at Sonny with her weirdly focused gaze. She looked like she was struggling not to smile.

"Well," Sonny said, drawing the word out into several syllables. "Joanna won't be back for a while, so…" He just wanted them out so he could finish what he'd started.

Almost intuitively, the girl's eyes suddenly shifted to the candy in his hands. Her nose wrinkled. "Koko Kringles? You actually _like _those?"

Sonny could take a lot. He'd been fired for 24 times, for God's sake, and that toughened you up quite a bit. He was an expert, basically, on not giving a shit. But this—two Koko Kringle haters in one day—it was really too much.

"And you don't?" he said quietly, poison on every word.

Poppy Dada merely raised her eyebrows. "They're disgusting."

"_Blasphemy_," Sonny spat, narrowing his eyes. Very deliberately, he tore off one of the wrappers and bit into the chocolate, smacking his lips together. "Mmmmmmmm."

Poppy shrugged her thin shoulders, setting off a wave of jangling bracelets. "Whatever. I'm going to head back to my hotel, Taylor. See you tomorrow, maybe."

She was still staring at Sonny when she said it.

"Of course, Miss Dada," Sinclair said, bobbing and groveling in the doorway. "Next time I'll call to make sure the management is here first."

"Good idea," Poppy said, her voice arched with sarcasm. "Make sure Chocolate Boy won't be here next time."

Sonny spluttered, chocolate crumbs spilling out of his mouth. "_That's_ what you're going to call me? For the love of… look, at least let me respectfully ask for a nickname appeal. 'Cause that one just _bites_."

"Noted. Considered." Poppy paused, sliding her lip through her teeth. "...Rejected."

"…the hell?" Sonny frowned, putting his hand on the door. He directed his attention to Sinclair, who looked like he wanted to sink into the floor. "Yeah, kindly keep her away from me when you guys come back." He slammed the door before he could change his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Wow, two updates in rapid secession! Let's hope I can keep this up. Thanks for reviewing and favoriting! :)**

Henrik pulled off his plastic gloves with a _snap_ and tucked them into his coat pocket. It felt odd to be out of the lab for a change, but he had recently finished translating an entire set of Mayan codices, which promised to be a crucial addition to the upcoming exhibition. For the time being, he had no other major projects to work on, at least not until the next round of shipments came in. He'd have to make sure he picked them up himself. Joanna would want to send Sonny after them, but Henrik didn't trust him, even if he only needed to carry them from the front of the museum to the back. Already the boy had lost more receipts than he could count, and he'd accidentally broken three replicas of Mayan icons. Henrik was afraid it would be the real thing the next time Sonny lost control of his limbs.

He was looking for the boy now, on Joanna's orders. Henrik walked briskly past the long rows of exhibits—all empty today, since the museum was once again closed to visitors. (At least in theory, he thought wryly, remembering the swarming crowds now filling the lobby.) They'd had to cut back to only four days a week, which made Joanna nervous, but there was no way around it. There were too many details to account for, too many rare items coming in. Soon, they'd have to shut down completely to ensure that everything was ready in time.

The massive stepped pyramid at the end of the room was still roped off. It was a new addition to the museum, made just for the exhibition. It wasn't an exact likeness, of course—after all, the original pyramids had been twenty stories high, with 91 steps cut into each side—but seeing it always brought back memories of his own visits to the Mayan ruins. Maybe once this last push was done, he could make another trip down to Mexico. It felt like ages since he'd been.

Tearing his eyes away from the pyramid, he stepped into the employee hallway. Sonny wasn't in the lab, so he stepped through the door of the shipping room.

"_Sonny!_" he called.

"Whoa, _jeez_. I'm _right here._"

If Henrik had taken another step into the room, he would have tripped right over the deputy curator. Sonny was sitting on the floor beside a control panel in the wall, a pair of oversized headphones slung around his neck. He had several notebooks open on his lap, two pens shoved behind his ear, and a thumb pressed against a button on the panel, which he kept switching off and on with increasing urgency.

"Are you… working, Sonny?" It didn't seem possible.

"I am, actually," Sonny said, flashing Henrik a twitch of a smile. "Might want to sit down and appreciate it, _Enrique_."

Henrik sighed. The boy hadn't pronounced anyone's name properly in over a week.

Before Henrik could respond, Sonny flipped to a clean page in his notebook. He shifted his headphones closer to his ear, frowning.

"I can't understand a word of this," he grumbled, scribbling furiously in his notebook. "Can you?" Without looking, he ripped off the headphones and held them up over his head. Henrik put his hands in his pockets and bent over to listen.

"It does sound a bit garbled," he said carefully. "But I've heard worse on the radio waves. What… is it, exactly?"

Sonny scowled. "_Yohanna_ put _me_ in charge of these audio narrations. She knew good and well that they were all hopelessly out-of-date, and all mixed up besides! The sound quality's awful. Someone's going to have to do the whole thing over. It's just… it's frustrating because this wouldn't be difficult at all if someone else had just _gotten it done _the first time."

Hearing that little rant from Sonny Joon was a little more than Henrik could stomach just then.

"Mm, yes," he said, trying and failing to keep the irritation out of his voice. "Other people often suffer when one person refuses to take their responsibilities _seriously_."

Sonny seemed to miss the hint. "Yeah. Assholes."

Henrik let out a long sigh. "Well. I know you're very _busy_—" He let the word hang for a minute; he doubted he would ever use it again in regards to the boy. "Do you think you can step away from this for a few minutes? Joanna is asking for you."

Sonny sputtered with indignation. "She lectured me for fifteen minutes this morning about how this needed to get done _now_. And now she wants me to just drop it?" He blew a tuft of green hair off his forehead. "Fine. _Fine_. Lead on, let's see what she wants."

Henrik held the door open as Sonny dropped his notebooks in a heap on the ground and swept past him, still huffing with rage. Henrik was beginning to think that Hurricane Sonny was an appropriate nickname after all, the way he spun from room to room, hardly ever bothering with the messes he left behind. Henrik glared at the pile of paper for a few seconds before following Sonny at a more leisurely pace.

He didn't have time to catch up with the boy before Sonny burst into the lobby—and into a screaming mass of people.

The jostling crowd, full of photographers and fast-talking reporters, managed to stop Sonny in his tracks. Henrik would have warned him if he had slowed down, but seeing the startled expression on Sonny's face was its own kind of reward.

"Sonny!" Joanna called through the crowd, raising an arm. She fought her way through a tangle of photographers and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "I need you to run—and I mean, _run_, put those skinny legs to use—to the store and get us some coffee. The good stuff, please. We're all out."

Sonny bristled. "I was busy with the audio—"

Henrik bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Sonny had a curiously one-track mind when he was aggravated.

"Never mind about that," Joanna fumed. "Just _go_!" She gave him a rough shove and then plunged back into the crowd.

"What the hell is going _on_?" Sonny pouted. He pushed his glasses against the bridge of his nose. "Who are these people?"

"We have a famous artist in our midst," Henrik explained. "Hence the rabble."

Sonny's eyes widened. "It's that red-haired chick again, isn't it?"

Henrik raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so you've already had the pleasure?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it _that_."

Just then, the sea of people parted, and the girl in question appeared before them. She'd pinned up her mass of curls with two thin paintbrushes, and she laughed loudly each time a camera flashed. Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the room until they landed on Sonny. "Hey, Chocolate Boy!" she yelled, lifting a hand in a casual wave. Something in her smile made it seem like she was laughing at him.

Sonny stiffened, clenching his teeth together. "I'm out," he muttered, pushing past a few reporters to sprint toward the door. He kept as much distance between himself and the girl as possible.

Poppy Dada stared after him as he left, that same bemused expression on her face. She was so _tiny_, Henrik observed for the second time that day, just a slip of a girl smothered in layers of skirts. Even in the crowd, though, she was easy to pick out. Everyone else in the lobby simply orbited around her. She definitely had a _presence_, but to Henrik she didn't always seem _present._ Her eyes took in everything around her without focusing on any of it.

Well, except for the boy, apparently.

As soon as Sonny had gone, she turned around, still and calm among her teeming mass of fans. She turned on her foot until she was facing Henrik, and then she skipped over to him, her wild hair bouncing against her shoulders.

"Hi!" she said. When she smiled, the corners of her mouth turned down, as if she were making one last effort to hold her happiness in.

"Hello," he said slowly. "I'm Henrik van der Hune. Can I help you with anyth—?"

"Who is he?" she interrupted. As she spoke, she waved a hand behind her, stilling the flood of photographers with one small gesture. Her eyes, wide and green, never blinked. She had nothing to hide, this girl. Her stare never wavered, even when Henrik averted his eyes. She was more than a little unsettling, almost abrasively confident.

Henrik didn't have to ask who she meant. "That's Sonny. He's our deputy curator."

She tilted her head. "What does that mean?"

Henrik chuckled. "It means he does nothing all day and gets away with it."

"Does he have a key to the curator's office?"

The question startled him. Henrik frowned. "No, he doesn't. That's Ms. Riggs' private space. Why—why do you ask?"

She smiled, her eyes widening with some kind of private understanding. "Oh, no reason."

Henrik was still puzzling over it after Taylor Sinclair whisked the girl into Joanna's office. The photographers simply spread out around the rest of the lobby, waiting for her to come out. Henrik sank wearily onto one of the benches. Maybe he ought to check the shipping room to see if any packages had come in during the last ten minutes.

Sonny returned a few minutes later, breathing heavily. He careened into Joanna's door, opening it just enough to shove a bag inside. When that was done, he turned around and shuffled toward Henrik, glowering over the tops of his thick glasses.

"What's _she_ doing here?" Sonny spat out, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

Henrik raised his eyebrows. "I take it you're not a fan?"

"She was in here yesterday. Wouldn't mind her own business." Sonny plopped down next to him, stretching out his long legs.

"I think Joanna wants to commission her to do some promotional art for the monolith exhibit. They were supposed to meet today to discuss the terms. As for the rest—well, Taylor Sinclair never could resist putting on a show. I don't think Joanna was expecting a crowd."

Sonny sighed. "What do you know about her?"

Henrik scratched the side of his nose, covering a smile. "Her name's Poppy Dada, or that's what she calls herself. I believe Mr. Sinclair just acquired one of her paintings. Incredibly pricy. The way he tells it, she's one of the most sought-after commodities around right now—for her art _and_ her personality. Me, I don't really understand it. I'm not much of a critic, but her work is… well, it's _eccentric_. I can't make head or tail of any of it."

"How eccentric are we talking?"

Henrik scoffed. "I don't know how to describe it. She specializes in… three-dimensional collage. You know how modern art is—looks like my three-year-old niece could have done it. Her work is much the same, only it's got all sorts of _bits_ poking out at you. She likes people to _touch_ her paintings, too, apparently."

Sonny wrinkled his nose. "_Touch_ them? What is that—a fetish?"

Henrik glowered at him. "No need to be lewd, Sonny. It's just part of the appeal." He shrugged. "What do I know? Maybe that's why she's so popular. It's different, and people like to see things stirred up."

"You wouldn't count yourself as one of them?" Sonny grinned, elbowing him in the ribs. Henrik only sniffed.

"Not quite," he replied.

"Well, me neither."

Henrik laughed. "Sonny, you like to stir things up more than anyone I've ever met. You and Miss Dada would probably get along swimmingly." Henrik didn't consider himself anything like a romantic, but he wasn't blind, either. There was something in the way the girl watched Sonny, and he doubted many people so captured her attention.

Sonny snorted. "Well. Call me if they need someone to mop up all the drool." He threw an obscene gesture at the photographers as he stood up. "And then find someone else because _I'll be busy_."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Another one. I actually thought I'd already uploaded this one, so you'll get two chapters in one day. :) Thanks for reading.**

Sonny poked his head out of the Employees Only door, peering into the dimly lit exhibition hall. A few visitors were milling around, murmuring to one another in low voices. They didn't particularly concern him; at the worst, they might be doing something stupid like getting their greasy fingerprints on the glass. Later, Joanna would carry on like it was _his_ fault, and he'd have to wipe down all the display cases at the end of the day. Annoying, but not exactly the end of the world. In general, most of Beech Hill's daily customers were uninteresting and utterly benign.

He wasn't sure the same could be said of Poppy Dada, who was sitting in the middle of the floor, right in front of the closed-off pyramid steps. Her knees were pulled up to her chest, and her skirts fanned out around her in a messy splotch of crimson. A few of the other visitors gave her curious looks, but no one seemed to bother her. No crowds of photographers, no zealous fans. Occasionally, Poppy moved her head from side to side, staring at the pyramid from different angles, but beyond that, she hadn't moved in _hours_.

Sonny shifted from foot to foot impatiently, his glasses sliding to the end of his nose. He really needed to go out and start making notes on all the audio displays, but he didn't feel like butting heads with her today. He'd just have to wait for her to leave.

As he was watching her, though, searching for any sign of movement, Joanna wheeled around the corner, a large pile of cardboard boxes in her arms. She spotted him before he could duck back inside.

"Sonny!" Joanna snapped. "What are you doing?"

"N-nothing," he said quickly.

"That's always your problem, isn't it?" she said through clenched teeth. "Our deadlines are fast approaching, Joon. Don't make me remind you again." She whirled around, clutching the stack of boxes tighter to her chest, and marched off toward the gardens.

"Of course, my sweet," he muttered under his breath. With a heavy sigh, he stepped into the exhibition hall, kicking the door shut with his foot.

There were only so many places he could pretend to look before his eyes slid toward Poppy Dada. She was watching him, trying to bite back a smile. Laughing at him. He scowled. This was exactly what he _hadn't_ wanted to happen.

There was no avoiding it now, though. Suddenly incensed, he strode over to the pyramid, letting his shoes skid to a halt right beside her.

"You shouldn't be loitering here," he fairly growled. "You're impeding foot traffic."

She leaned back on her palms, grinning up at him. "Madam Curator said I could sit here for as long as I liked," she said sweetly. She nodded in the direction of the gardens. "I guess that's not what she told _you_ just now, though, right?"

"I don't see how that is any of your business."

Poppy just kept smiling. "I wonder what she would think if I told her you've been sneaking into her office…"

Sonny tensed. "I haven't been _sneaking_—"

"I know you don't have a key, and I doubt you had permission to be in there the other day," she said, unimpressed. "And I imagine you're already in very hot water, judging by that fascinating display of body language I just witnessed. So." She smiled again, and it reminded him of a cat with a mouse between its paws. "Why don't you just have a seat?" She patted the floor beside her.

"I have work to do," he muttered.

"But I have urgent need of your services," she said. She leaned toward him, bumping his leg with her shoulder. When he didn't respond, her voice turned hard. "Do it, or I'll _tell._"

Sonny clenched his fingers into fists. If Joanna caught him slacking again today, she'd probably have his head. On the other hand, if Poppy blew the lid off his sure-to-be-hilarious pranks, he'd be in even more trouble. Maybe it was better to just do what she said. Anyway, wasn't it his job to help visitors? Poppy was definitely that, even if she was also an obnoxious pain.

He sat down.

"Good. Now, doesn't this feel great?" She slung an arm over his shoulder. He eyed her askance. He wondered if he ought to be afraid for his life. "Don't you feel rebellious and _free_? Isn't it weird that just _sitting here_ is frowned upon in our society? Just sitting and thinking? There's something wrong with us if we're always expected to be in constant motion."

Yup, he was afraid. She probably had an ax hidden in her skirts. She'd hack him to pieces and call it a sacrifice to the ancients.

He studied her face. Up close, it was easier to pick out the light freckles scattered across her nose and the permanent laugh lines that curved around her mouth. He thought someone who smiled as much as she did was _probably_ not violent psycho, at least. Maybe she was the harmless kind of crazy, the kind that left bread crumbs outside for the fairies.

"I think I'm going to paint this," she said, a bit breathlessly. Her hand slipped from his shoulder as she gestured at the pyramid.

"Sounds great," Sonny said, hoping that would appease her. "Uh, keep up the inspiration. Sorry, but I really do have to go—"

"What do you think happened to them?" Poppy asked, as if she hadn't heard him. Her voice was suddenly very quiet. "The Maya, I mean?"

Sonny froze. _Dammit. _She had him. He could feel the words tumbling from his tongue, even as his brain told him he ought to shut up for once.

"It was aliens," he said, putting every ounce of conviction he could muster into his voice. "The Maya were so into astronomy, and everything had to be _so_ precise, everything lined up with the planets. There's no way they could have known some of the stuff they did, and yet here we are, years later, still trying to _keep up _with their train of thought. We know _some _stuff about them, but everyone misses the big picture, the missing piece, the thing that links it all together. The Maya were trying to contact other life in the sky. I mean, they devoted _centuries_ to it. It's no wonder that other life finally came for them and took them away. Their minds were aligned with the stars in more ways than one. There's just no other explanation that makes as much sense."

He fell silent, aware that his voice had been steadily increasing in volume. He was nearly shouting by the end of it, and a few of the other customers paused in their silent shuffling to stare at him. He sighed, burying a hand in his hair. His heartbeat thrummed loudly in his ears. It was always like this when he started talking about it, like someone had set fire to his blood. He couldn't slow down, and his thoughts flew faster than he could speak them. Only—no one else ever seemed to feel the same, or even wanted to _listen_. You would think after a while he would learn to rein it in, but he could never quite control himself.

Poppy didn't say anything. For a minute, he was sure he'd managed to out-crazy her. Maybe she wouldn't want to talk to him anymore. …Which would be good. He could get back to work and keep Joanna off his back. He was reluctant to get up, though. He wanted to hear what she had to say. She was so recklessly blunt about everything else, surely she had _some _opinion to offer.

Finally, she turned toward him and smiled. "I knew it," she whispered, so low he had to lean in to hear her. "Knew it."

"Knew what?" he asked. Were his ears playing tricks on him? Had he managed to meet the one other person who bought into an exobiological theory? That had never happened to him before. He didn't quite know how to proceed from here.

She laughed, her eyes fixing on a spot above his head. "That you'd get caught."

Sonny whirled around and saw nothing but Joanna Riggs' jean-clad kneecaps.

"Get _up!_" she hissed. Joanna kept her voice low so as not to distract the customers, which, he supposed, was a small blessing. "I'm through kicking your ass into gear every five minutes. Do what you're told, and do it _immediately_, do you understand?"

Sonny jumped to his feet, leaning back on his heels to keep his balance. "I didn't—"

"I don't want to hear excuses. Don't speak another _word_ to me today."

"Ms. Riggs?" Poppy spoke up behind him. "I'm afraid this was my fault. I just wanted to ask someone what they thought of this particular angle. It's for your commission." She stood up slowly, brushing the dust off her skirt.

"That's right," Sonny nodded quickly. Joanna glared at him, but she seemed a little less angry.

"Well, that's fine, Poppy," she said. It sounded like she was pulling the words from her teeth. "He has more responsibilities than he knows what to do with right now, but I at least hope he was of help."

"Very." Poppy smirked and jabbed Sonny in the chest with her finger. "Now, you'd better get back to work, mister."

There were a million things Sonny wanted to say, inventive insults that bubbled up in his brain, but instead he swallowed the words, along with his last scrap of pride, and trudged toward the exhibits. He'd get back at both of them sooner or later.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I keep getting distracted by how much I love Henrik. XD **

Sonny dashed into the lab, feet skidding on the just-mopped floor, his arms wheeling backward in an effort to balance out his momentum. At the last moment, he bounced up on his toes and planted his butt on the edge of Henrik's desk. In the same move, he had crossed his legs, braced one arm against the desk, and leaned so far to the left that his head was upside down. "Helloooooooo, Henrik!" he beamed.

"_Christ_." Henrik sucked the word in through clenched teeth. He tore his mask off and leaned away, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We _talked_ about this, Sonny."

"Did we?" Sonny said innocently. He straightened up and put on his widest smile. He just had to be resilient here. Henrik would agree to anything if you just flirted with him long enough.

Henrik's eyes narrowed. "You don't recall the chat we had about the concept of personal space last week?"

Sonny frowned. "Ohhhh, _that_ one. I thought that only mattered during working hours."

Henrik stood up and yanked the plastic gloves off his hands. "These _are_ working hours. It's not five o'clock yet. Or do you not ascribe to the universal system of keeping time, either?"

Sonny ignored that last bit. "Well, that's what I came to talk to you about. I need to get off work a little early today. It's imperative."

Henrik practically snarled. "Talk to Joanna. That's not my business."

"Well, she's out, though. She's at the consulate ripping out Alejandro's throat." Sonny smiled. He kind of wished he could be there to see it. "You're second-in-command. I need _you_ to clear it."

"Why do you need to leave at all?"

"The subway's closed today," Sonny said, stretching his arms over his head. "Which means I'll have to catch the bus five blocks from here. Only, the last one leaves in, like, ten minutes, which normally would not be a problem because what kind of self-respecting city service shuts down just as the five o'clock rush starts? But they're down to _half_ their driving force right now because of their upcoming strike, so the buses can only run at certain hours." His face stretched into a crooked grin. "See? I'm _informed_."

"Impressive," Henrik said archly. He shifted from foot to foot, chewing at the corner of his lip. "You don't have any other way of getting home?"

"My roommate doesn't have a car," Sonny said, swinging his feet. "Unless _you_ would be so kind as to take me?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Joon, I really don't think I can handle another moment of you today." Henrik glanced at his watch. "All right, since it's just 4:30, you are excused. Better come in early tomorrow, though, just in case Joanna wants to know why I let you off early."

"Thank you!" Sonny exclaimed. He jumped up and gave Henrik a kiss on the cheek. The old man looked stricken for a moment, then composed himself in time to shoot Sonny one last glare before Sonny whirled around and hurried out the door.

He wasn't sure Henrik had believed him about the whole bus schedule thing, but it was all true. Sonny checked his watch. Eight minutes. As long as he hurried, and as long as the bus was on time, he would definitely make it. Even as he thought it, he felt his heart sink. He had learned long ago that the universe didn't take kindly to such assumptions. As soon as you actively _thought _that something would work out fine, it didn't. He tugged his lips between his teeth, already angry with himself, as he opened the heavy front doors and broke into a jog.

He was still three blocks away when the universe took its revenge.

Sonny recognized her immediately; it was impossible not to with all that _hair_. Poppy Dada had just stepped out of a coffee shop, a heavy bag slung over her shoulder and some sort of icy, foamy drink in her hands. It took him only a second to take it all in. He didn't have another second to avoid running right into her.

"Hey!" she yelled. The drink flew up in the air and landed in a puddle of mocha. Sonny struggled to disentangle himself. Somehow his arms had ended up around her shoulders.

"Sorrysorrysorry," he muttered. He sidestepped her and started to run toward the bus stop, but one of her fingers hooked into the collar of his shirt, and he reeled backward. It was all he could do to remain upright.

"Oh no, Chocolate Boy. I require reimbursement." She spun him around and stuck her open palm in front of his face. "That stuff on your shoes cost me $4.89."

"I'll pay you later," Sonny said. He grabbed her hand and wrenched his shirt free. "I have to make the bus."

"No, I think you should stay. I think you should give me the money now, so I can go right back in there and get another one. And I think you should have to sit here and watch me drink it." She paused. "And I'd like you to tell me more about your Mayan alien theory."

His mouth dropped open. "You are _unreal_," he spat. "I'm not falling for that one again." He stepped closer to her, only because he was several inches taller and felt the sudden need to make her aware of it. "Do you just enjoy getting me into trouble?"

She tilted her head, gazing up at him with her wide, green eyes. "Clearly not, or I would have gotten your ass fired by now."

"You couldn't," he said. He had to force himself to relax. She couldn't hold that over him forever. "I wasn't doing anything wrong, and anyway, it would take more than one such incident to force Joanna to let me go. She needs all the help she can get."

"Fair enough," Poppy said, smiling. Suddenly she leaned to the side, her heavy curls falling over her shoulder. "There it is," she murmured.

"There _what _is?"

She smirked at him. "Your bus."

"Shit!" Sonny whirled around; the bus was idling on the corner; some passengers at the bus stop were already climbing aboard. Sonny clutched his bag in his arms and started running, oblivious to everything except the bus door, which seemed to be oh-so-slowly closing…

"Wait!" Sonny yelled. There was no more air left in his lungs, no more to draw in. He just kept moving, hoping some oxygen would somehow slip down his throat. He had no time to breathe.

He was half a block away, his legs screaming in pain, when the bus pulled away, throwing exhaust fumes behind it. Sonny slowed his pace, knees quaking, and finally collapsed on the bus stop bench, pressing his face against the cool metal. He was panting, and the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat. _Not. Fast. Enough._

A few minutes later, Poppy was standing next to him, her arms crossed, her lips pressed together in a superior smile.

"Impressive. I didn't know you were capable of such rigorous exercise."

Sonny glowered up at her, his chest still heaving. "That was the last bus of the day."

Poppy shook her head in mock sympathy. "Damn. That sucks."

Sonny closed his eyes and rolled over on his back, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "This is your fault, you bitch, bitch, _bitch_." He pulled his shirt collar over his face to muffle his cursing.

Poppy didn't give any indication that she'd heard him. He heard her footsteps as she walked away, then the slam of a car door, and an engine roaring to life. A moment later, a beat-up blue rental was idling on the road next to him, Poppy at the wheel.

She reached over and rolled down the passenger window. "How are you getting home?" she asked.

Sonny glared at her. "I will drag my beaten body over twenty miles of bloody gravel before I will ride with you."

Poppy rolled her eyes. "Just get in the car."

Sonny thought of how much she had ruined his life in the past week alone, of her every stupid, mocking smile, of all the ways he planned on making her pay for it. And then he thought about exactly how long it would take him to walk to his apartment from here. In the heat. With a twenty-pound bag on his back. His lungs raw and burning from his run.

With a grunt, he sat up, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the ground in front of him. "Fine. But if you try to kidnap me, _I swear to God_—"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This whole chapter was _so difficult to write_, you have no idea. I ended up deleting huge chunks of dialogue. STAY ON TRACK, KIDS. Hope you enjoy!**

Poppy's car was a rental. She must have told him that at least half a dozen times—as he slid into the passenger seat, as he buckled his seatbelt (the metal burned his fingers), as she jerked the car away from the curb, and as she twisted the volume knob all the way down on the radio. It was an old car, the color of faded jeans (with dark patches of rusty skin peeking through), and it smelled faintly of baked beans. He could see why she might feel like apologizing for it, but it was still nicer than any car he'd ever owned.

Once he'd given her his address, both of them were silent. Poppy kept fiddling with the air conditioner, and her wire bracelets rattled with every twist of her wrist. Sonny hunched as close to the door as possible, his forehead pressed against the warm glass. He read the OBJECTS IN MIRROR ARE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR sign until the English language stopped making sense to him. He hoped there wouldn't be any traffic along the way that would make this car ride any longer than absolutely necessary.

After a few minutes, Poppy clicked her tongue against her teeth. "So. How long have you been working at Beech Hill?"

Sonny sighed, digging his thumbnail into the rental leather seat. "Look, I just want a ride home, not a damn interrogation."

"It's not an interrogation, it's a _conversation_." She sighed and flapped her elbows in a kind of full-arm shrug. "I don't actually hate you, Sonny, despite what you seem to think. Also, my car, my rules. You talk, I drive—that's the deal. So let's try this again. _How long have you been working there?_"

The last few words came out in a kind of hiss. Sonny shrank into his seat. Maybe she really _was_ trying to be friendly, but that didn't mean she wasn't scaring the hell out of him.

Oh well. He'd go along with it for now. He shoved his knees up against the dashboard, exhaling loudly. "Just a few weeks, I guess. Long enough for them to start trusting me with things, which is always the beginning of the end, I've found." He smiled to himself.

"Beginning of the end?" Poppy asked. "Isn't trust usually a good thing?"

Sonny scoffed. "Only if you're up to the challenge of having responsibility. And I am not."

Poppy chuckled under her breath. "So you haven't had many jobs, then."

"On the contrary." Sonny beamed. He couldn't resist bragging a little. "This makes my twenty-fifth employment in two years."

The car shuddered as Poppy accidentally pumped the brake. She had to straighten the wheel to keep from veering into the curb. "You're kidding me!"

"Not at all." Sonny blew a tuft of hair out of his eyes. "Go ahead and insert your lecture of admonishment and outrage _here_." He drew a box in the air with his finger. "I'll add it to my collection."

Poppy shrugged. "No judgment from me. I think that's pretty impressive, actually."

"Well, you are the first person to ever say that. So. Congratulations." He straightened his back against the seat. "Man, these seats are uncomfortable."

"Sorry—it's a rental," she said quickly.

"Yeah. I gathered that," he shot back. He sighed as they came to a complete stop behind a long line of cars. Great. That was an extra fifteen minutes, at least. He racked his brain for something else to say. "Actually, from the way Mr. Necktie was hovering around you the other day, I'm surprised they even _let_ you rent your own car. Why aren't you with your entourage?"

"What? The creeperazzi? Or _Taylor Sinclair_? Please." She rolled her eyes. "I know this is crazy, but I actually don't need someone licking my ass every minute to feel like a complete person."

Sonny groaned. "Honestly, the thought of Sinclair licking anyone's ass is enough to give me nightmares. Could we _not_."

Poppy laughed, turning to look at him. When she moved, her hair _bounced _against the top of her head, as if it were some exotic bird adjusting its perch. "That's funny. You're funny."

"Uh-huh." He was still staring at her hair. From here, it almost looked like it was breathing.

"You can touch it, if you want," she said suddenly, swinging her ponytail down to her shoulder.

Sonny wrinkled his eyebrows. "…Really?"

She laughed. "I'm used to it, Koko."

He ignored that last jab and tentatively pressed his palm into the froth of curls. "God, it feels like I'm petting a sheep."

"Nice. I've honestly never heard that one." She swished her head around, and it was all back on top of her head again. "Your mop's pretty interesting, too."

"Oh." Sonny plucked a green strand of hair off his forehead and tugged it down in front of his eyes. "I… got really bored one day. _Really _bored."

Poppy clicked her tongue in disapproval. "So, it's not a political statement, then? How disappointing."

"Not all of us are weird just to make a _point_," Sonny scoffed.

"You might as well make one, while you're at it, or otherwise no one will pay any attention to us at all." The words snapped out of her, like she'd already been holding them in her a long time. She flushed and turned her attention back to the road, her knuckles tight around the steering wheel. Sonny waited a moment, turning her words over in his head.

"…Us?" he finally asked.

"…Weird people," she said. She shrugged, but it barely shook the stiff line of her shoulders. At first, it seemed like she would lapse into another silence, but then more words exploded out of her. "You know, if you can't make yourself into what they want you to be, then you gotta make them want to _listen_ to you. Being weird won't cut it with _them_. You have to be _interesting_."

"Is that why you draw?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, I suppose that is why I _draw_. It's why I _make_."

"Sure. And I like to doodle."

Poppy chuckled. "You make it sound like I've just got fistfuls of crayons and go at it."

"Oh, that's not your process? I looked up some of your stuff last night. Could've fooled me."

She reached over and smacked his shoulder as hard as she could.

"_Jesus!_" he shrieked. "Goddamn it, woman, at least I _looked _at it. I Googled that shit." He instinctively thrust his arms over his head, protecting himself from another volley of attacks.

They never came, though. Instead, Poppy suddenly broke off into a peal of laughter, the kind that made it difficult for her to breathe properly for several minutes. Sonny joined in, partly out of pity, partly because he was just so relieved she wasn't going to hit him again.

"See?" she said, when she'd finally calmed down enough to speak. "That's what I'm saying. You can hate my art, _fine_, but as long as you listen to what I have to say, then I've done what I wanted to do. And thank _God_ you're not like the rest of them. It's been so long since anyone has told me I suck. I almost missed it."

"I didn't say _that_—" he began, but she wasn't finished.

"All right. Your turn. Come on, tell me about yourself. Have you lived here long? What are some of the other jobs you've had? Where did you grow up?"

Sonny scowled, crossing his arms against his chest. "This is sounding like an _interrogation _again."

Poppy winced. "Sorry, it's—"

"A rental?" Sonny chirped, doing his best to imitate her voice.

"Hey!" she snapped, laughing as she said it. "I like nice cars, okay? I don't want you thinking I normally get around in this crumbling piece of tinfoil."

"I couldn't care less what you drive," Sonny said stiffly. He was suddenly tired of trying to keep up with her random mood swings. "As long as it gets me home."

"And where might that be?" she asked. "Your spaceship?"

Sonny glared at her, but he found himself replying before he could remember he was supposed to be angry. "God, you don't know how much I _wish._ Like, honestly." He paused, hoping that would be the end of it, but he'd caught whatever madness Poppy had, and words kept pouring out of his mouth. "I _dream _about that shit sometimes."

"So you're into aliens, then," Poppy said, as if this weren't already obvious.

"Not really," he deadpanned, shrugging. It almost pained him to deny it, even if it was only briefly and for comedic purposes. "I'm just writing my thesis on their interactions with pre-Columbian civilizations. You know. No big deal."

"No kidding?" Poppy frowned. "You're—are you in _grad _school?"

"I could be, if I wanted to. I'm basically just trying for an honorary doctorate. Just gotta write something the review board will _love_."

Poppy nodded, biting her lip. She seemed distracted all of a sudden. That was probably common with her.

"So, um," Poppy said, pushing hard on the accelerator as the traffic eased up in front of her. "How, um, old are you?"

"Just… 22. Why?"

"Just asking."

He was almost positive she wasn't "just asking."

"How old are _you_, then?" he shot back. When she didn't answer right away, he sighed, throwing up his hands. "See, I thought we were having a conversation, right? Generally, that means a back-and-forth, give-and-take type situation…"

"I'm 18," she said quickly, her hands wrapping tighter around the steering wheel. "I turned 18 two weeks ago."

"Two _weeks_?" He snorted. "God, you're barely even legal."

"Thanks for the update," she said dryly. Sonny thought she meant it as a joke, but she still sounded angry.

"I feel old now," Sonny mused, leaning back against the seat. He might as well keep the upper hand while he had it. "All these little kids running around in _rental _cars, playing at being artists." He shook his head in mock disgust.

"I thought you were younger," she said stiffly.

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He didn't know why it mattered. Unless… but no. No. Surely she didn't think… surely she didn't _like_ him. He didn't know what to do with the thought.

"Good, we're here," Poppy said suddenly. She ratcheted the car against the curb, parking neatly next to Sonny's apartment complex. "Try not to miss the bus next time."

"I won't." He slowly opened the door and stepped out. "Awesome. Well." He turned around and placed his hand on the doorframe, steadying himself as he leaned inside. "Thanks for the ride."

She smiled. "I would say '_no problem_,' but you were kind of difficult." She lifted an eyebrow. "But I look forward to next time."

"There is no next time," he muttered, but the words sounded wrong even as he said them. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, trying to think of something to do or say that would give him Last Word Bragging Rights. He was tired of her one-upping him in every conversation. His mind was blanking, though, so he just kept staring at her, hoping something brilliant would come to him. She was cute when she smiled, he thought suddenly, stupidly. It wasn't even a smile, really, just a peculiar twist of the mouth that made it impossible to know what she was thinking. He wanted to know—only now his mind was all filled up with other things, like trying to think up good comebacks and noticing the freckles on her nose for the first time and suddenly wishing that he could climb back in the car and stay there until he had figured her out.

"Get out of here, weirdo," he finally managed to say. It was weak, but it was all he could come up with.

"You're welcome, freak," she said. She gave a jaunty little wave and wheeled away in her banged-up rental car.

Sonny started to flip her off, but he couldn't bring himself to pull his hands out of his pockets.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Finally, an update! Hope you enjoy!**

"Look alive, Joon," Joanna snapped as she bustled out of her office and into the lobby. Sonny was sitting behind the main desk, his fist practically buried in his cheek in a valiant and ultimately futile effort to prop his head up. He felt too sleepy to be alive, and Beech Hill offered little in the way of lively entertainment.

"I'm up, I'm up," he mumbled, a few seconds too late to qualify as a real response.

Joanna picked up a heavy box of files, slung it against her hip, and rapped her knuckles loudly on the desk. Sonny snapped into consciousness, nearly falling out of his chair in the process.

"We're about to open the doors, okay. Don't make me regret putting you in the big seat." She gave him one of her patented withering looks. "Did you review all our policies and guidebooks like I asked you to?"

"Definitely, sir, yes, sir," Sonny said, with a lazy salute. "And I got the maps and the audios all stacked and ready." He patted the glass case full of headphones behind him. "No sweat."

"And no alien stuff today," she said, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned. "Right."

Joanna sighed. "Okay. We've got about ten minutes. Go grab yourself a coffee. I think Henrik's already made a big batch."

Sonny swung his chair around and shuffled out of the lobby. Coffee sounded good. Maybe if he hadn't stayed up all night playing video games, he'd have a little more pep (a trait that Joanna considered essential for all her employees, despite the fact that she was one of the least peppy people he'd ever met). He didn't think he could be held _entirely _responsible, though. You couldn't simply _wait_ to play a game like Zombaliens 3. He and Charlie had both been in line at midnight to get it, and then they'd holed up in their apartment for the rest of the night with two pizzas, a six pack, and a couple high-frequency zombie blasters. He'd saved Los Angeles from zombies but hadn't managed to salvage his sleep schedule. But those were the kinds of sacrifices you had to make when you were dealing with catastrophic exobiological plagues.

It had been fun, though, to rip into a few hours of mindless simulated violence. It kept him from thinking about a lot of other, more frustrating things—mainly Poppy. Since their last conversation a few days ago, she'd kept popping up in his head, like some kind of chronic disease. It was kind of discomfiting. Just now, for instance, every time he closed his eyes, his brain would conjure up images of her wearing some sort of skimped-out leather outfit while hoisting a zombie blaster over her shoulder. He wasn't confident about these things, but he was fairly sure they hadn't reached the stage in their relationship where that would be considered acceptable.

_Relationship_, he scoffed. He'd only talked to her a couple of times. He shrugged his shoulders in aggravation as he pushed open the Employees Only door in the exhibition hall. God, he needed caffeine.

"Oh, hey," said a voice. Before he'd stepped a foot into the hallway, he caught a glimpse of Poppy's dusty red curls. She was turning away from a fold-out table with a coffeepot and a tray of doughnuts sitting on it. She licked some powder off her thumb and waved with the rest of her fingers. "You look a mess."

"What are you doing here?" he snarled. His people skills were shot to none.

"I'm the marketing department, remember?" Poppy said, rolling her eyes. "Joanna let me in early because I'm going to be sketching today, and I needed some photo references." She patted a camera bag hanging from her shoulder.

"You mean you're sketching in here?"

Poppy smiled. "Not _here_ here, but in Beech Hill, yes." She raised an eyebrow. "Why? Did you want me to leave?"

He grumbled a non-response and shouldered past her, reaching for a Styrofoam cup and jiggling it free of the stack. Now on top of being exhausted, he was going to have a headache. Fantastic.

Poppy sidled up next to him, standing infuriatingly close. "What's on the agenda for today, then?"

Sonny sighed. "Main desk duty. Information center for all the lonely tourists." He poured his coffee, popped a plastic lid on it, and took a long sip. "Mm. God. Henrik outdid himself with this. Someone just start pumping this stuff through my veins already."

Poppy laughed. Sonny quickly took another sip to hide his smile.

"So, I take it you're having a not-very-good day," Poppy said, leaning back against the table. "Which is something of an accomplishment, considering it's barely 8 AM."

Sonny tilted his head to one side. "That would be a correct assessment," he said carefully. He was trying to avoid looking at her, but it was difficult. She kept springing in front of him when she sensed that she might be losing his attention.

"Am I contributing to that?" she asked, bouncing up on her toes so that for a moment her eyes were level with his. "The not-very-goodness?"

As usual, she shocked him into honesty. "Yes. No. I don't know. Both."

"Elaborate." She moved away and hoisted herself up on the table, tucking her skirts under her legs.

Sonny rolled his eyes. "Just… Well, this pretentious thing you do where you talk and talk more than any sane person could stand. It's annoying. I can't tell if you're trying to flirt with me or if you're just being a condescending asshole."

Her face twisted into her strange not-quite-a-smile. "Yes. No. I don't know. Both?"

"Ha ha," he deadpanned.

"So which do you not prefer? The condescension or the flirting? I suppose I could do my best to stop, if it's really such a bother to you."

He just glared at her and walked out of the room in what he hoped was a dramatic fashion.

In total, they had three other conversations that day, each of which only lasted for a few sentences. Once, after a fresh round of visitors had just trickled out of the lobby, Poppy appeared in front of the desk to ask an apparently pressing question:

"Wanna grab some coffee or something later?"

"No," he said, without looking up. He was in the middle of reading over one of Beech Hill's brochures and simplycould _not_ be disturbed.

Later, he saw her in the garden, scrunched up next to a large Mayan statue, her sketchbook on her knee. He slowed down for a moment, trying to appear nonchalant.

"How's it coming?" he asked.

"Mmhmmmm," she replied. He had no idea how to interpret that, so he turned to leave.

"Coffee later?" she asked as he tried to retreat.

He bristled. "No. Quit asking me."

She shrugged and went back to sketching. The fact that she'd stopped paying attention made an indignant exit impossible.

Most of the guests at Beech Hill came during the mornings, so for most of the afternoon, Sonny was left sitting alone in the lobby, unable to do anything to distract himself. He pulled out a few of the brochures from the desk drawer and started doodling, quickly exhausting his standard alien silhouettes. He let himself drift into a pleasantly mindless state. When the front door opened once again, he hurriedly brushed his pen and paper aside to give a cheery "Hello!" to the newest visitor. When he glanced down at the brochure again, he realized he'd been drawing grotesque caricatures of Poppy for the past ten minutes.

"_Jesus_," he swore under his breath. He tapped his pen against the desk in a vain effort to maintain his self-control. It didn't work. Before he knew it, he had swung out of the chair and was striding through the exhibition hall.

"And where are you going?" Joanna snapped as he passed right by her.

"Bathroom break. Diarrheic emergency."

"Sonny—"

"Unless you want me to erupt all over your floor." He threw his hands out in a lazy shrug and kept walking until he was in the garden. He stopped right in front of Poppy, who was still squirreled away in the fake ferns. Slowly, she wrenched her gaze away from her sketchbook to look up at him.

"Okay, fine," he snapped. "Coffee. Five o'clock."

Poppy didn't seem surprised. "Great."

"If you're still around, we can walk over together."

"Well, you don't have to act so happy about it."

"I'm not."

"Stop smiling, then."

"I'm _not!_"

Poppy laughed and stood up. "Me neither."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: I'm frankly terrible at updating _everything_, but I've been played Secret of the Scarlet Hand recently and got inspired. Enjoy the ridiculous banter. **

Sonny wiped the sweat from the back of his neck and pulled at the collar of his dull blue polo—it was standard issue for all "regular" Beech Hill employees, the ones who didn't get the cushy positions like 'curator' and 'glyph specialist' and whatever the hell else people did at that museum. The heavy shirt was already sticky with sweat, and he had only been outside for five minutes. He tried to compensate for his general grossness by trying to make it seem deliberate, popping his collar up to his ears and mussing his hair so it stood up in a vaguely mohawk-ish shape. Poppy watched his preening with a tiny smile.

"I just realized I've never seen you in anything but that uniform," she commented. Unlike Sonny, the heat seemed to have no effect on her. She strolled casually beside him, long skirt rustling around her ankles, the sun brightening her fiery curls. He wished she would trip or something, just to even the scale a bit.

"Wait a few more minutes and you'll see me in nothing at all," he said. He pinched the front of his shirt away from his skin and fanned himself with it. "Jesus _Christ_, this is hell. What happened to that _it's-a-rental_ car of yours?"

She shrugged. "It's parked at the coffee shop."

Sonny raised his eyebrows. "Well now. That was awfully presumptuous."

Poppy flashed a smile. "Well, I was gonna drag you kicking and screaming if you ended up being too stupid to come."

"I could still change my mind," Sonny said quickly, rolling his shoulders back. "It's too hot for coffee, anyway."

"They sell ice cream. And frosty lattes."

"I'll just walk right by it and catch the bus on the corner."

"Or iced tea."

"I probably won't even have to wait."

"Or you could just take your shirt off."

He scowled. "If it weren't so hot, I'd say you have to buy me dinner first. But I already offered to strip for free, didn't I?"

Poppy waved a hand. "You were delirious. Most people wouldn't hold you to promises made under duress."

He paused, shoving his hands in his pockets. "…Would _you_?"

"Most definitely," she smirked. "But I can take a raincheck. We're here." She nodded at the coffee shop, the same one she'd been stepping out of when he'd nearly run her down the other day. "I'm pretty sure they won't serve you without some kind of sensible attire."

He opened the door for her, smiling as she skipped inside. He had forgotten how much _fun_ flirting could be, especially when you didn't intend to follow through with any of it.

Poppy was already at the counter, rattling off an order she must have made every day. Sonny didn't usually come here (it was a little too hipster-ish, even for him), so he took a minute to squint at the menu, written on a blackboard above the counter in colorful chalk calligraphy, before stuttering out an order for a tall frozen latte.

When it came time for him to pay, he felt a moment of sheer panic. He had spent the last of his cash the night before tipping the pizza guy, and he hadn't gone near an ATM all day.

"Shit," he hissed under his breath. He turned his pockets inside out—there was nothing in them but a few pennies and some ticket stubs that had been through the washing machine so many times they'd alchemized into an entirely new substance. He grinned sheepishly at Poppy. "Um…"

She rolled her eyes. "I got it, I got it," she said, pulling a $5 out of her wallet and handing it to the cashier. "You're lucky I'm not your typical starving artist."

"I'll pay you back tomorrow," he said. "I think I still have to pay you for that coffee I spilled, too. Tomorrow. For sure."

Poppy only smiled—in a lazy, knowing way that made him suddenly fear a catch. One way or another, he felt like he would always owe her something after this.

She found a tiny table for them over in the corner. It took Sonny a couple of seconds to climb onto the impossibly high stool, which he stupidly tried to do while still holding his cup. By the time he'd settled down, Poppy was already in the middle of stirring sugar and milk into her coffee, leaving gutted paper packaging strewn across the table. She looked like some mad scientist in the middle of an experiment. Sonny just tapped his fingers on the table and sipped in silence.

And the silence just stretched on and on, neither of them quite willing to break it. It was stubbornness on his part; he was sure some small part of his soul would shrivel up if he ended up enjoying himself, so he was at least going to hold out for as long as he could. He didn't know what was up with her, since she'd been the one so eager to get him into her lair, but she remained fixated on her drink, occasionally pausing to glance out the window. It took him several minutes to come to the conclusion that she might be nervous, and at that moment, she finally spoke, words spilling out in a weird, frustrated jumble.

"Um, so, why don't you tell me about the aliens again?" Something about her tone sounded off, and Sonny immediately smelled a trap. He frowned.

"You don't have to keep humoring me—"

"It's not that—"

"—Because no one ever _really _wants to hear about them, I know that," he said, rolling his eyes. "I've been obsessed with them my whole life, and no – one – cares."

"I do. I mean, I'm not teasing you. I'm curious." She tilted her head, propping her chin up with one hand. "Come on. You said your whole life? What got you interested in them?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe I just like the idea that there's something else out there that's got it more figured out than we do. So if I can understand _them_, even just a little bit, I'll be pretty on top of it." He grinned. "Also, I just like being right."

She raised an eyebrow. "And you _are_ right, huh?"

"I didn't just pick this up from some sketchy History Channel documentary, dearie," he said, slipping into Henrik's clipped consonants without being fully aware of it. "I've got the evidence to back it up. It's just a matter of piecing it all together."

"'Kay. Hypothetical question, though. Do you honestly think any real university is going to accept a thesis on _aliens_?"

Sonny snorted. "Extraterrestrial or _extrasolar_ species are a valid scientific probability. I've got a background in biochemistry and astrophysics, okay? I know what I'm talking about." He sipped his coffee. "True, not everyone is going to automatically jump to my conclusions, but that's just because they're content to assume that the universe is the most boring possible reality that they can imagine. I just explore the other options."

Poppy nodded, still looking a bit skeptical. "Biochemistry _and_ astrophysics, huh? Correct me if I'm wrong, since I have yet to grace the halls of an institution for higher learning, but doesn't that seem a bit… tough?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Okay, I might not have _majored_ in both of them. I may have just sat in as many lectures as I could for classes I wasn't _properly_ enrolled in. But the piece of paper doesn't matter if you're actually learning. Listening to things, paying attention to the stuff you want to use—"

"…wasting your parents' money…" Poppy chimed in.

Sonny's eyes flashed. "They didn't have to pay a goddamn dime, all right?"

"Oh," Poppy said quickly, biting her lip. "Do you… not get along with them?"

"Ugh. Well enough, as long as I keep my distance. They're not convinced I'm applying myself enough to 'things that matter.'"

She smiled. "You're preaching to the art student choir over here."

"Yeah, but it's apparently worked out real well for _you_."

"It has, actually."

He sipped his latte, tutting his lips in the way adults always did when they broached the subject of money. "So when you say you're _not_ a starving artist… just how above that curve are you, exactly?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I could _buy _that museum of yours if I wanted to."

"_Jesus_." He clamped his teeth down on the ice cubes in his mouth to keep from swallowing them whole.

"It _is_ kind of disgusting, yeah." She sighed, swishing her feet through the air. "To be honest, it makes me feel real damn disingenuous. I'm an artist, right? I'm supposed to see the world differently, not care about any of that … stuff." Her hand jerked as if she were shooing flies. "There are so many people—in the art world, which is nuts—who think you gotta come from, from _nothing_, you know? But I'm not some hip child of the streets; I'm a Midwestern _Daddle_. I come from money, and now I'm making _more_."

He nearly snorted out his drink. "What the hell is a Daddle?"

"It's a name." She coughed. "It's my last name."

He reeled back in his seat. "You mean you don't come from a long line of illustrious Dadas? Color me _shocked_."

"Like I said. I'm desperate to make myself sound legit."

"You have definitely succeeded in making yourself sound like a pretentious infant."

That seemed to strike a nerve. For a moment, she stared at him, some wavering, unnamable expression on her face, but it broke with her sudden laugh.

"I'm so stupidly afraid of being thought of that way, but like. _Honestly_. It's ridiculous, I know. I'm ridiculous. Sometimes I think I have to bury myself in ridiculousness just to be taken seriously. Art, man. What the hell?"

He pressed his lips together. "I don't know what to tell you, but I think I did have you pegged as a … a Daddle, or the East Coast equivalent. Your hippie shtick wasn't fooling anybody."

"And I don't want to," she said quickly. "Fool anyone, I mean. It's just… I hate being billed as, like, this voice of the downtrodden millennials when I've had it so _easy_. I think my art matters, I think_ it_ has substance. But me? Me, the privileged teenager from South Da-_ko_-ta—" Her voice hitched into the nasal lilt of the Canadian border. "I start feeling bad about who I am, and then I feel bad for buying into the whole _art is pain_ nonsense. I'm cheapening my own statement."

He flexed his fingers, wishing he had a pen in hand. It was easier for him to think with something tactile. He feared his appropriate response arsenal was dwindling.

"Well, art stands on its own, right?"

"Right? It should. It absolutely should. But I keep apologizing for _me_, and I just—" She groaned, stretching her arms across the table and letting her head fall between her elbows.

"I feel you," he said, even though he didn't really. In response, she raised her clawed hands and pretended to rake them across her face.

"_People_, though."

"Awful, aren't they?" he said.

She looked up and smiled, and—like clockwork—he started _noticing_ things again, that her teeth were _white white white_ against the olive shade of her skin and she had a little scar on her chin and she was somehow, overall, the textbook definition of adorable.

"You know what else is awful?" he said quickly. "The word _adorable_. Any time you say it out loud, it's just—ugh. It literally _sounds_ like you've fallen into a barrel of puppies, like you're flailing helplessly around and you can't even pretend like it's a scary situation."

Poppy only paused for a moment before catching on. "You can't even scream for help."

"Right!? You're surrounded by _puppies_, no one's gonna take you seriously, even though they're probably mean and can definitely bite."

"_Adorable_," Poppy spat. "Can't sound tough saying that."

He shook his head. "The _worst_."

Poppy laughed and hid her smile in her arm. It was totally unfair of her, and Sonny knew he would hold her personally responsible for every dumbly fascinating expression her face made.

"Hey, Sonny?"

"Mm?" He wasn't looking at her anymore—too risky.

"You know that day you sat with me, and I said I knew Joanna would catch you?"

"Uh-huh," Sonny mumbled.

"That wasn't it. That wasn't what I meant."

"Oh? What, then?"

"I meant… I knew that you'd be interesting."

He snorted. "Don't you mean odd?"

"Do I look like the kind of person who has a right to call anybody odd?"

As she said this, she threw her arms up in the air and leaned back, balancing her chair on two legs. Her hair looked even wilder than usual, flaring up away from her head, and sometime during the day, she had gotten a wide splotch of blue paint on her neck that made her look like she'd been half-strangled. He choked out a laugh.

"Point and match."

Half an hour later, Poppy slammed her empty cup in the trash can by the door, then proceeded to do some kind of victory dance around its grave.

"Are you finished?" he asked.

"Yes." She smirked up at him. "So I'm thinking that went pretty well."

Sonny shrugged. "As these things go. Perhaps."

"Tomorrow, then. Same time?"

He groaned. "Again?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You just said you had a good time."

"Maybe, but—" He leaned heavily against the wall. "You just … _exhaust_ me."

"Hmm," she said noncommittally. "I've heard worse. First dates have never been my forte."

His shoulders stiffened until they were hunched into a straight line. "We weren't on a—"

"Save it, Joon," she said, holding up a hand. "Call it what you will. I'm just recommending the idea that we—being two people who have just shared a lovely conversation and who are mutually interested in continuing it—should do this again some time."

She was trying to be casual, innocent, but she was standing much too close to him to be believable. She was hovering only inches away, and she folded her arms (on purpose, surely) so that her skin brushed against his for the briefest moment. He wished he could say he was immune to all these (frankly desperate) ploys, but his heart hitched when she touched him, and he found that he was more than a little preoccupied by the slope of her collarbone. It seemed suddenly ridiculous to him how the outline of a skeleton against skin could make him blush. He tried to stammer his way out of it, wrenching his gaze away from her and staring at the ceiling instead.

"Well, maybe. I might be busy, you know…"

She leaned in even closer, and his eyes snapped down to meet hers. "That thing about dragging you here if I have to? That still stands." Her lips curled into a smile.

His eyes widened. "Why do you care so much?"

She blew out a sigh of frustration. "Because I generally make a habit of spending time with people I like. And I'm not going to sit here and waste my time with someone who's trying way too hard to prove that he doesn't care at all." She glared at him for a moment longer and then abruptly shifted away, her voice going softer. "I kind of want us to be friends, if that's not too inconvenient."

"All right, all right," he said quickly. He was suddenly afraid she was going to start crying on him. "S-sorry, okay? I'm sorry. I don't mean to be an asshole. I just am. Ask my roommate.

She shrugged. "I may have also been an asshole recently. To you, especially."

He nodded sagely. "You have been."

"We're all guilty of it."

"Some more than others."

She rolled her eyes. "All right. Bye, Sonny."

He waved as she left, watching her until she had climbed in her rental car and driven off to some luxury hotel Sinclair had no doubt found for her. He counted down slowly from ten, letting the weird buzz that came from being around Poppy wear away. Then he started walking toward the bus stop.

He went home, careened onto the couch, and tried to fall asleep.


End file.
